SemiGods
by Das Tier
Summary: The grand canon question: why, my sons, why? Because, Atrus, somebody’s been obsessing over boats too much while yet another certain somebody created too many islands.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Semi-gods

Fandom: Myst

Pairing: Sirrus/Achenar. Or vice versa, depends on whether you consider the mental or physical aspect.

Disclaimer: all Cyan's, Ubi's, and primarily, the Miller brothers.

Rating: G and a tentative R for pt. 2, where some sex does take place.

Summary: the grand canon question: why, my sons, why? Because, Atrus, somebody's been obsessing over boats too much.

Warning: incest. Plus, spoilers for the games, even though the fic wobbles somewhat read: a lot within the canon.

1. Raw materials.

1.1.

"Won't work," comments Achenar, chewing on a straw.

If Sirrus needed any additional stimulus, this is it. The stubborn brass, wood and stone contraption challenges him, as does the relaxed, confident manner of his brother's remark.

"It will not work. Believe me, I know."

It takes Sirrus only a split of a second to map out the possibilities. He's pretty sure about the plan for his new device, but what unnerves him on this fine, sunny day is the sudden certainty Achenar seems to display. He wishes he'd be alone, face to face with his experiment, and without the appointed supervision of the elder sibling. He's grown up enough; this distrust is killing him.

"How do you know?"

Before Achenar bothers to phrase a solid argument, Sirrus does some quick calculation. It's not that difficult: the elder's is sensibility while the younger's is sense. Achenar would take some time forming his emotions into exact words; not that he's that often wrong with his gut feelings, to give him due credit. This time Sirrus wonders where this certain feeling has come from.

There are only two variants: spite or envy. Probably the former is the consequence of the latter. The best Achenar has managed so far is a couple of elementary mechanisms, their structure no more complicated than two, or three the most, puzzling moves. These devices have been robust, that much Sirrus acknowledges, but then, he's never been the one to use brute force. Or is he mistaken and this time his brother has actually discovered a hidden catch that he has overlooked, impossible as it may seem?

"I asked you a question."

"Uh?" Achenar seems busy with all manner of things, like an irregular path of a bird in its flight, the sunray pattern on the leaves, and such.

"How do you know it won't work?"

"Father told me. So it will NOT."

He hasn't included this variant into his plan. And neither has he considered the fact his brother could gain such omniscient advantage without actually doing anything. Sirrus thinks about the notion of fair game and feels thoroughly cheated.

1.2.

Death is always a revelation. They haven't seen it before that close, and never in such direct relation to the world they know. Sirrus looks outside, where the island of Myst is slowly swallowed by evening fog, and feels the chill despite the glow of the fireplace. The pines are reduced to tall shadows, with the path to be guessed between them. He's spent all his short lifetime in this place, and yet he isn't sure he knows it any more.

He listens attentively trying to overhear the conversation between his parents, but the creaking branches and the deep, ever-present rumble of the waves interfere. Words are dissolved in the dusk, and he catches only disjoint bits that explain nothing and only scare him.

"We can't be sure what illness was…"

"Anna…It was in one of my Ages, Atrus…"

"Don't blame yourself, it could happen…"

"We never know what's in there… must be careful…"

"We will. This time, nothing could be done. Don't blame…"

It is a rare case when Atrus, his father, is entirely focused on something other than his studies, and ironically, it is wasted on Catherine, who seems deaf to any reasoning. Sirrus would like to come nearer to his mother, to offer whatever consolation and comfort he could, but he shouldn't and wouldn't dare. When Atrus is beside her, there's no place for anyone else. To think that he himself would need consolation in grieving for his grandmother borders on sacrilege.

Sirrus slides farther back on the bench, trying to become invisible, and realizes there's something else beside the sounds from the outside that has been hindering his concentration.

"Can't you stop champing like that?"

Achenar doesn't look up from his plate, his greased fingers tearing and breaking every morsel of food into pieces that are immediately gulped down in a feverish hurry. His longish brown hair is disarrayed and, to Sirrus' disgust, also greased where the strands have dipped into pools of gravy he has made all around himself.

"You'll eat yourself sick. Stop it!"

Achenar doesn't seem to hear and reaches instead for his brother's untouched plate. Sirrus watches how a slice of fat roasted meat suddenly slips from the fingers he's always known to be so nimble and strong, and then shuts his eyes tight.

1.3.

The island of Myst was written as a safe haven but in fact it wasn't, since Anna - or Ti'ana, the story-teller, as she had come to be known - had enough of insight not to assume her good intentions would override the laws of life. Death has always been here. It is here now, right under the bush in the forest, and it announces its presence by sound as much as by looks.

The dead bird moves when Achenar pokes it with a stick, and upset flies buzz around angrily. Apart from that, the bird looks still as if it were alive, and Achenar pokes at it again, to make sure. He isn't the one who killed it, and he wonders what accident might have caused its death. There are no predators on the island apart from him and his brother, and he's pretty certain neither he nor Sirrus could have done it without leaving marks. To see if there are any, he has to pick the dead bird up.

When he does, fighting a sudden aversion, the creature's wings fall open. Still no marks of violence. Illness and old age, he's heard tales of people dying of old age, which he never understood. You can die if you eat or drink something bad, or if you are wounded and mix blood with dirt – that's what mother always says when he or Sirrus get a nasty scratch and do nothing about it. But this kind of invisible death, coming from nowhere, seems stealthy and unreal. It's almost like a game of make-believe, and he pokes with his stick harder to see if the bird is indeed dead and not faking it.

The stick breaks, and Achenar decides to take the bird with him to his room, where there are sturdy objects good for experimentation. The tiny body in his palm is warm and soft, and it almost seems he'd just need to make some loud noise to wake it up.

Anna, his great-grandmother, looked like that when father, after a long while spent behind the locked door, finally invited them all inside. Everybody was so quiet, and he suddenly got this urge to smash something or to shout as loud as he could, and of course Anna would sit up and look at him with her usual amused patience.

Since that day everybody is still very quiet, and it seems he is alone in the house. He collects his fish-hooks and a few strips of metal Sirrus has forgotten after they toyed with another device that refused to work, and sets about his business.

He is very gentle. He tries very hard to be gentle, but the bird's flesh suddenly gives way, and the hook is buried whole in its neck.

"Achenar? What are you doing?"

He looks up at his mother, and at that moment the bird comes to life, or seems to, the wings flapping in weak spasms as a rivulet of blood worms its way on the floor.

"What ARE you doing?!"

"I…"

He tries to take the hook out, but before that, mother is dangerously near.

"You killed it. What did you do that for? Answer me!"

He wants to, but he can't because he's again expected to express so many things in just a few words. She slaps his face once, and he covers up on instinct, fingers smeared in blood leaving traces on his cheeks as well as on Catherine's hand. He doesn't remember how many times she slaps him then, harder and harder, until she runs out of the room, her own face in tears.

1.4.

"Hello?"

Sirrus' voice echoes in the distance, but nobody answers. The pillar walkway is deserted, and there's only the smell of dry glass and birds' chirrup in the air.

"Where are you?" Sirrus looks around and sighs in grim resolution. "Achenar!"

It all means another day is going to waste. But it was father's request, and since it was the first time he spoke to Sirrus after Anna's death, it was impossible to even think about opting out of the task. His task, for today, is to find his brother and keep him company. As if lately Achenar has been needing any other company than a full bowl of food: Sirrus still cringes at the image of his brother's recent table manners.

There's also been something, something that happened between Achenar and mother. His sibling has managed to do something outstanding to bring such an attitude upon himself: not the usual chiding or a strict rebuke they both are used to, but a sort of cold, unfamiliar detachment. If this day is going to bring him nothing in his plans, he might at least find out what happened.

But he's getting tired of this hide-and-seek game. Achenar knows how to hide when he wants to, but they wouldn't share the same family if Sirrus didn't know where to look. He stops for a moment and thinks.

His brother is precisely where he's concluded him to be: on the stairs facing the sea, sitting on the steps all gruff and grumpy.

"Hello, you've been bad?"

Perhaps it's not the wisest of ways to start a conversation. Sirrus' long tongue has already landed him into various degrees of awkwardness, and now he promptly remembers that his brother is not only in a bad mood but also two years older and stronger. But curiosity has always been too much for him to resist.

"What did you do? Mom's not herself. I think…" Sirrus is about to say something he has just realized. "I think she looks afraid of you."

Achenar interprets it as a bitter praise and stands up, chin raised in solitary arrogance.

"I killed. It was a bird."

This is what Sirrus has never done yet, and for a moment he feels a pang of jealousy and wants to know details. He thinks better of that, though, since doing his assigned task well would mean talking to father again, and Atrus would definitely not like hearing that his sons understood 'keeping each other company' as a discussion of such sorts.

"How did it feel?" Sirrus ventures one last question.

"Uh," Achenar shrugs with an air of a person who'd like to be somebody else. "If was unexpected. And mother got angry."

"I thought it was because you smashed all those models in your room."

"No, that happened later."

Sirrus snorts. Did his brother really think that'd mellow her? From his own experience he knows that talking about your fault brings you more, in the long run, than breaking things in protest or stubbornly sulking alone. Parents somehow like to hear why you do this or that thing; not that it's always easy to explain, of course, and doubly so for Achenar, who often has no idea about his 'whys' himself.

"Well, what do we do now?"

They slowly walk up the clearing to the reflection pool. The sun is high, and there's still the bigger part of the day lying ahead, to be filled with activity unless they want to wallow in depressive slack.

Achenar stops by the pool and gives one of the boats sailing there a lazy push.

"Naval battles?" proposes Sirrus hopefully: he's always liked boats, these toy ones they've had for like forever in the pool, and the huge, sinking one in the bay. Ships have always fascinated him; they mean movement and discovery, and a whole lot of things he's never seen.

"Not interesting," grumbles Achenar, tracing a spiral on the glassy water with his fingers. "They always run in circles in the pool. Not fun."

Sirrus, not long ago having turned nine and lacking in height as compared to his sibling, can still hardly see over the stone rim of the pool and so thinks differently. But if he insists on his wish, his brother might lose whatever interest he still has and leave, and then the day will be ruined by boredom completely.

"Wait. I know where there'll be more space. Take them out."

Brother looks at him questioningly.

"Take them out, I have an idea."

The taller Achenar fishes the two boats one by one out of the pool, and then they both return to the stairs by the quay. The sea utters deep, rumbling sounds like it always does in the end of summer, and far away clouds billow on the horizon.

"You stupid," announces Achenar, eyeing the splashing waves with skepticism. "They'll break, they can't sail over the real sea."

Sirrus watches him, arms crossed over his chest and one foot tapping slightly. He knows his brother too well.

Achenar pauses, estimates the chances, then kneels on the warm planks of the quay and carefully, with the precision unexpected in the hands as harsh as his, launches the boats onto open water.

The toy boats waver and dip and swallow a good deal of the sea into their unprotected holds, then steady as they are caught in the swing of the waves.

"A ship is nothing when there's no sea," says the know-it-all Sirrus, and his brother only squints at him, his attention bound to the struggling vessels.

For a long moment the boats are posed with their bowsprits pointing to the open sea, and Sirrus almost believes they've tuned to the waves and now will press onwards successfully, where the deep water seems calmer. Then another, this time higher wave raises them on its back and crushes them against the mooring posts.

"I told you so," Achenar sighs as the broken flotsam rubs against the wood of the quay pillars in silent reproach. "Father will be mad."


	2. Trade

2. Trade.

2.1.

"When I wrote this Age, there were three boys living on the rocks, and I thought, what if it was a sign? A glimpse into my own future. These boys seemed to have appeared in my life from nowhere, and they had nothing to do with the Art, just like it always happens with children." Atrus nods with a good-natured laugh. "What would you two say if one day you have a brother?"

The weather around them doesn't agree well with the idyllic picture Atrus has just imagined. Rain is lashing out of heavy clouds, and a fresh, strong breeze predicts a full-blown storm to be on their heads any time.

Smaller lights grouped around a tall structure with a shielded great light on top indicate the settlement around the lighthouse Atrus has mentioned as their haven on the Stoneship Age. Apart from a few visits to Everdunes, this is their first excursion together, and despite the rain, Sirrus feels excitement at the prospect of seeing new faces. That's exactly the reason Achenar is gradually falling behind with every step that takes them closer to the village.

"Sirrus," he calls between two violent thunderclaps. "There are people."

"Sure there are people. There should be, in dwellings, and villages, and cities." Sirrus brushes the wet hair out of his eyes in irritation, but suddenly he can see his brother's point.

For years all who they have ever seen were their parents and Anna, and with her death their life has become even more solitary. The times they left Myst were rare and never lasted long, and the chances to meet any locals of an Age weren't that great. Old Pran on Everdunes didn't count: she was a lot like Anna, and it made her comfortably familiar. For years Sirrus awaited this moment with keen anticipation thinking that this is when life would begin for real; and now he is afraid. No doubt that's what Achenar is thinking, too, though he tries to stand tall beside his younger sibling as is required by his seniority.

"Don't fear, brother, I've smuggled in my dagger."

Sirrus snorts and takes a step forward, making a point of going independently. Father has never taken any weapons with him; certainly in all his travels he's found a way to protect himself with other means.

"Ten years!" exclaims Atrus somewhere behind the rainy curtain. "How much it's grown in just ten years!"

The storm calms down in the morning, and when the boys wake up, the day is already bright and sunny. The big room they were greeted in with a dinner, so crowded yesterday, is empty; father is also gone, notes Sirrus, trying to shake himself out of a troubled sleep. Another problem he hasn't considered: it is really difficult to sleep in a room with other people.

Achenar hops outside, yells something inarticulate and stumbles back in.

"Get up, you lazy bones, there's something you'll like!"

Sirrus makes vague protests at being so rudely hauled out of the room, but when he sees the thing, his sleepy grumblings are forgotten.

The Ship. The huge, monolithic shape that should have been seagoing but has become embedded in rocks so that only its extremities stick out. It is as if the flesh of the earth itself has grown around the remains of a hapless wreck, and it's only then that Sirrus remembers his father's words about the failure to ever set this ship afloat.

"Want to go there?" taunts Achenar, already knowing the answer.

There are boys on the ship, of course. Sirrus would think very bad of the local dwellers if there weren't any. No boy in his sane mind would leave such a grand promise of adventure to sit there unexplored. They approach a company of skinny, sun-tanned kids with caution.

"We know you," one of the older boys signals to them, "you came with Atrus."

They exchange some information. What's it like where they live? Yes, they too have a ship. No, it doesn't float, that much they have in common. Want to play with us? How comes Achenar, all of a sudden, has a dozen sworn brothers and doesn't remember his own blood one?

"Sure. What's the game?"

The taller boy, obviously the leader of the gang, shows something sparkling yellow to Sirrus.

"Gold," he explains. "If you want to stay on our ship, you have to find it and bring it back."

And he throws the shining piece of metal into the sea.

The water is dazzlingly clear, and it seems the golden piece is easily within reach. Sirrus stares into the calm, crystalline sea and tries to estimate the real depth. The gold has landed close to the rocks, it can't be that deep. He can do it.

"No way," whispers Achenar, tugging at his sleeve. "It's not worth it."

He can do it. He brushes his brother's hand aside.

"Let me dive," insists Achenar, but Sirrus shakes his head and starts to take off his shirt.

Aware that the local boys watch him intently, he folds his clothes in a neat pile and stands still for a moment steadying his breath. Achenar mutters something in disapproval that sounds a lot like their father.

At least the water isn't cold. Beams of sunlight cut the water with perfectly straight tapering cones, and the sand at the bottom is formed into little neat ripples. It doesn't seem that far from the surface. Sirrus turns to look through the prism of water at the ones he left on board, raises a fist in salute to his brother, and begins the descend.

These boys are hardly much older than him, and they certainly wouldn't put his life at risk, knowing who his father is. There can't be anything too dangerous in this enterprise. He's dived before. He can do it.

His lungs start to burn, and the piece of gold is still miles away on the bottom, as remote as it seemed from the surface. He thinks he can hear the laughter of the boys, even if he knows it's physically impossible.

What will his father say? When will he notice, if he's been gone since early morning and not likely to return any time soon? Or, more important, what will mother say when he and Achenar return home? Does she know a way to punish their father, too, the way she made them feel miserable when they did what they weren't supposed to do?

He resurfaces, much to his own surprise, completely out of breath and without any gold; picks up his clothes; and leaves.

In the evening there's another festive dinner, which lasts less than yesterday, and soon everybody is asleep more or less noisily. Sirrus fakes being asleep as well, facing the wall for better isolation. From his place he can see a part of the sky in the window, and to keep his mind off sad things, he studies the unfamiliar constellations that pass above the island in the night.

He gives a surprise start when cold droplets hit his shoulder.

"Here," it's Achenar, and he's dripping wet although there's no rain outside. "Take it."

Sirrus clasps the piece of gold in his fist and says nothing. He's never been lost for words, but now he doesn't know how to explain that this way it is doesn't mean a thing. It just doesn't count.

2.2.

And so comes the time they stay in an Age alone. Atrus has made a lot of fuss about it, asking for a hundredth time if they are really, really sure they'll be all right, and when they said – for the hundredth time! – that they would, he disappeared that very instant. Achenar, who definitely looks worn out with having to give countless promises to look after his brother, lets out a long sigh of relief. Now, Channelwood lies open before them, all theirs and nobody else's.

"Don't get me wrong," Achenar muses aloud looking through the labyrinth of trees, "but why father always writes his Ages as islands?"

Sirrus shrugs, he's too busy sorting out through endless ideas flooding his mind at the moment. So many possibilities, so much to explore, and in the agreeable company of the local tree-dwellers who seem to think they're gods or something similar.

"I know." His fourteen years old brother has recently begun to think he knows everything. "It's because there's been so many imprisonments in our family."

"Maybe you're right." Sirrus has to agree there's something credible in what his brother has just said. "And there's usually no transport to get out, beside the Linking Book. Wonder why."

"Because there's nowhere to get out? Because he doesn't want to?" Achenar giggles conspiratorially. "Well, he may not want to, but it doesn't mean we can't find a way to travel over all this water, no?"

Sirrus immediately realizes what his brother is driving at. Indeed, the temptation is too strong. These patches of water that meander between the old grey trunks seem to lure into open spaces, much bigger than what lies under the pathways and bridges. They will build a boat – eventually.

The ape-like tree-dwellers crowd around them the moment Atrus leaves, looking up with hope. They are chirping and twittering, and Sirrus admits with regret that the boat plans will have to wait: it's the first time they'll have to communicate with strangers without father as an interpreter, and he can't pass on a challenge to define, for once, his own meaning of words.

Later, when the initial thrill of being on their own has subsided, Achenar leans to him to whisper while the monkey-like creatures continue their busy activity around them.

"You still haven't forgotten that incident on Stoneship, have you?"

Sirrus says nothing and picks up a gem from the pyramid the apes have piled before them both as a welcome gift.

2.3.

"Sirrus…ah, you're here."

Achenar seems off balance and, to his brother's immense surprise, actually blushing. Sirrus puts down the paper where he has been sketching the elements of the surrounding terrain as his father asked him to.

"What's up?"

"Listen, do you have some of your collection here with you?"

Achenar means a rather wide assortment of small tokens Sirrus has been bringing home from various Ages they've visited so far. Some items in this collection are precious, some hold any value only in the collector's mind.

"Yes, a few. Why do you ask?"

His brother casts a furtive look around, and Sirrus realizes with amusement this is what an uncertain Achenar looks like.

"Listen, brother," he swallows hard, "these survivors on the main island over there…"

Sirrus nods. The Mechanical Age is underpopulated to the extreme; he may not know as much as his father about the principles of life in an Age, but he knows for sure nine people aren't enough to maintain a civilization, even if two of these nine are as young as them.

"Do you remember that girl?"

There's some entertainment to be had in watching how Achenar fidgets in search for words to discuss such a delicate issue. Sirrus takes his time torturing the sibling, not being helpful in the least.

"I thought… her parents don't allow her to take a step outside, danger of pirates and all that… I thought if I bring her something pretty, like one of these shiny trinkets of yours…"

"That's called bribery, brother. What do you think father will say if he finds out?"

"And he will find out?"

"Not from me," Sirrus raises his hands in resignation. "Whatever. Will this do?"

He gives Achenar a stone from Channelwood that has the same funny ability to change colour as the waters of that Age. They should have agreed over the interest, he realizes belatedly, since he'd like to get more of net gain than just his stone back. Perhaps a detailed story of Achenar's adventure will be a fitting compensation.

He spends the entire day on the southern island, sorting the materials they'll need to finish the construction of the fortress, making random sketches as ideas cross his mind, but most of the time doing nothing. He adds a few touches to Atrus' plan of the fortress aiming to correct the one major flaw in the draft: now the citadel would be able to strike back. He doubts father will agree to implement this adjustment though.

It is difficult to tell when the day starts to fade into dusk with the overcast, almost black sky of the Mechanical Age. Sirrus wakes up abruptly when a loud noise of somebody crushing into something announces he's not alone on the island. He peers into the twilight, groping for the lantern.

"Put the light out." It's Achenar, and Sirrus stretches lazily, relieved. He adjusts the flame to give a moderate warm glow and turns to his brother with a wicked smile.

"So, how did everything…"

"I said, put the light out! Or at least cover it up so that he doesn't see it…"

Before the details sink in, Sirrus knows the "He" in Achenar's alarmed, almost panicked order. Father hasn't returned yet. Should they be fearful of his return, and if yes, for what transgression?

Despite Achenar's protests he raises the lantern for a better view and studies the many scratches and cuts on his face left, most likely, by the nails on one very angry hand.

"Oh my, you've been fighting with girls, dear brother? Looks like a great battle to me. Did you win?"

Seeing that the sibling isn't going to do as asked, Achenar tears the lantern out of his hand.

"Probably not, since you're so annoyed. Did she not like you, after all, even despite the stone? Or…" Sirrus hears with surprise as his own voice drops down to a whisper. "She didn't like what you were about to do?"

"What do you know, little rascal?" Achenar snaps back. He's not completely right about "little": with years Sirrus has caught up in height, and even if he still looks leaner and more delicate, months of physical labour in this Age have left their trace on him.

"I know enough. And I think," Sirrus adds, feeling he's about to dance on a wire. "I think I'd have done it better. Give my stone back. I may need it, as a present for the time after."

They've fought before, and many times. They both have their own strategies, and quite elaborate at that, but the only problem is, they've tried them all ages ago, and one knows how the other will move even before the opponent starts to think about it. Logic would say they strike a truce before the fight begins to save time and effort, but they are too stubborn to be logical.

They smash into a stack of wooden planks, break some glass and make a narrow escape from hitting their skulls against a bundle of iron bars, which could mean an end to all fights, now and for ever. In the back of his mind Sirrus makes an erratic rehearsal of what they'll tell father in the morning, and how the girl's evidence will add up to it, and if there will be any evidence to speak of because he might say that it was his nails that have left those marks, and he wouldn't even have to lie that much because the reason to scratch, punch and kick at his brother is the same…

"No wonder she hated you," Sirrus says when they stop to gulp in some air. "That's the most amateurish, sloppy and clumsy kiss I've ever…"

"Ever?" Achenar narrows a skeptical eye. "How comes you're able to make comparisons?"

From aside, it still would look like a fight. The rocky ground of the island, littered with half-formed devices and spare parts, isn't the most convenient of places, and yet Sirrus finally manages to relax between some bars and tiles, and at last the only part of him that still hurts is the back that rubs against sand and broken stones as he responds to his brother's rhythm.

"The girl will say nothing," he whispers into Achenar's ear, which is conveniently within short reach. "Those boys on Stoneship, they didn't tell anyone. They revere father too much and would hate to make him sad."

Achenar stops, draws in a deep breath and looks down at his brother in the light of the lantern shielded secretly between two stacks of boards.

"You should have gotten that gold yourself, back then," he says finally, concluding an old thought.

"But I didn't. It never works out the other way. There are games where you just can't cheat." Sirrus pushes his brother aside and sits up with a groan. "A few years ago, I'd say having to explain to father a mess like this would be one of such games. We'll see how well we manage now."

2.4.

Sometimes they ask themselves if Atrus will ever notice. Will their father ever see how they've changed, and moreover, in what ways?

They've passed the whole five Ages he wrote for them to learn from. _Dynamic forces spur change_, says Sirrus when father asks him if he and his brother still bicker over trifles. _Balanced systems stimulate civilizations_, prompts Achenar when their mother praises another of their joined projects. _Energy powers future motion_, explains Sirrus when they split their duties in an Age, him taking care of the plan, and Achenar minding the security of its realization. _Nature encourages mutual dependence_, they now tell Atrus on the cold Rime when he jokes about the way they stick together throughout the long polar night.

"Is he blind?" Achenar asks what seems to his brother to be a rhetorical question,

Sirrus is lying on the fur cover in one of the observatory's rooms. Above, the ceiling is made into a gigantic circular window, which offers a view of the ever-dark sky and the colorful curtains of the Northern Lights dancing across it.

"A good question to ask, now when he's tinkering with that crystal viewer of his. Do you sense the irony of the situation?"

"If you say so. I sense danger." Achenar isn't amused. "He might hear. If you scream like that again…"

"What will happen? Another entry in his endless journals about a surprise discovery done in one of the Ages?" Sirrus buries his face in his palms, then presses the knuckles to his eyes until it starts to hurt. "I can't bear it any more. Again. Achenar, it's an island again."

Sirrus sits up abruptly; the room is also circular, and there's no light except for the glow from flickering electric charges in the sky.

"Sometimes I think all the Ages he's written are like rooms in some enormous palace. He says Myst is his home, but he just stops there for a while, like…" he looks around the room with its wide, fur-covered bed, "like we're now stopping in this bedroom. Our father, he has a big house."

"And?" Achenar frowns, fascinated with the metaphor.

"And nothing. Did you like it when, as kids, we were told not to leave our rooms after we did something wrong?"

"Very figurative, brother, but don't forget who still holds the keys to the doors."

Sirrus doesn't answer, rolls over to his stomach and stares at the sibling. Achenar stares back for a long while, then shakes his head in a disbelief that is mixed with admiration.

"I wish those pirate ships of the Mechanical would have been wrecks, like all others we saw before. I shouldn't have ever allowed you to go across the sea," he says at last, not really meaning it.

"Maybe you shouldn't have. Anyway, it is too late."

2.5.

The scissors make one final cut, and Sirrus steps back to appreciate the results of trimming his brother's unruly hair into a neat and groomed appearance.

"Remember: you must look reverend if we want them to believe what we say."

Achenar nods solemnly, not quite sure he knows what being 'reverend' encompasses. You don't have to, looking like our father the way you do now, Sirrus might have elaborated; but he prefers to keep this observation to himself.

They'll be splitting their duties again. Sirrus is ready to do all the talking if his brother just stands there, a younger mirror of Atrus and the best proof they express Atrus' ideas and concepts. This similarity of kinship to their parent has been unnerving Sirrus for some time already and would have undermined his confidence completely if he wasn't certain Achenar hasn't taken after Atrus in anything other than looks.

The Narayani remember them and listen at first in respect to the old times they shared together. Sirrus tries to see himself from aside and is fascinated with the sincerity of his arguments. He didn't expect he'd be doing that well.

They speak about the lesson Ages and how Narayan was written to be one of them. A model Age, an artificial creation planned and incarnated only to teach two young boys some basic principles of the universe. Oh, there happened to be life on that Age? All for the better, as it'd serve as a vivid example to the mentioned boys.

How much value does your life hold if all it's ever been was only a lesson to others?

The locals exchange surprised, staggered glances, and Sirrus realizes with bitter irony that father must have omitted this part when introducing himself to this world. What are they going to do about it, he asks, when the boys for whom this Age was written have learnt their lesson? Are they going to continue to maintain their deficient Age, knowing now that it was written as deficient deliberately, to make the lesson even more obvious?

They listen and believe his words, and ponder his questions in earnest. Everyone starts to speak at once, and the place is a turmoil of confused remarks, angry shouts and baffled exclamations. Sirrus, being honest with himself, admits he hasn't expected such an immediate response; he was anticipating arguments and doubts, and maybe being labeled a liar. Did they believe him because he really believed he was telling the truth?

"I've been thinking," Achenar mutters in a low voice and looks askance at his content brother. Sirrus hardly bothers to pay attention.

"What?"

"I've been thinking," Achenar repeats with grave persistence, "about the toy boats we had in the reflection pool back on Myst."

"And?" Sirrus is annoyed at being reminded at such a moment of one long past day that seems to have no importance for the present.

"They sank the moment I dropped them into real sea."


	3. Accounting

3. Accounting.

3.1.

The rain seems regular in this Age, and as he writes in his journal, he wishes it'd never stop. This way, it blots out the screams of animals and the constant rustling in the jungle, which upset him with their sense of presence. He's never liked hearing many voices at once, and crowds of strangers always awoke nothing in him but hunting instinct.

Of course there was a wreck when he linked there. This Age wasn't called Haven for nothing. Sometimes he rereads his first journal, the one he wrote when he was curling up – holing up, to quote his own words of a hunter's jargon – in the wreck of a ship on the shore. Sometimes, when he has absolutely no other worthy pastime, he counts the numbers he had mentioned Sirrus on those pages.

On clear days he sometimes climbs up a cliff and watches the sea merge with the line of the horizon. He could, theoretically, use whatever is left of the wreck's timber and built a raft or a boat, to investigate what lies out there in the distance, or behind that cape. He could, but he never will.

He has always lived on islands his father built, and he knows that it just won't work.

3.2.

Spire is ironic, he thinks as he listens to the green crystals of this Age sing in their vibrations. Take, for example, these voices. Did father, by writing an Age filled with voices of long dead or never existing civilizations, plan to disturb his memories? Or those crystals, some of them look so much alike those gems he used to bring home from his travels – is it a reminder? He has heaps of them now, he can hoard them, grind them into dust or throw one after one into the gap between his mountain and another. Speaking about all things shiny and glittery, he's never been wealthier in his life. He must have given Atrus more credit: father appears to have known his sons better than they ever assumed.

He sits on the edge of the platform, feet dangling in the abyss, his back against the cold stone. It has taken him a lot of roundabout maneuvers and gentle persuasion to convince mother he needed that syringe for his experiments in the garden. Well, it's true, in a way. It's due to that garden that he's now able to see worlds come to life and explode in bright flashes where otherwise he'd only see layers of dark clouds. Pity the effect of that concoction wears off way too soon.

He picks up another glowing rock and throws it in the direction of another spire. So close, so tauntingly close, and yet outside of his reach forever. There are islands, as always, but this time there are no boats; there isn't even a sea – only turbulent, ozone-smelling air.

He thinks at first his home-made drug is to blame for the strange illusion he observes: the rock refuses to fall down and hangs there in mid-air, slowly rising as it defies gravity.

He stands up, in his excitement nearly slipping off the edge, and stares at the nearest towering mountain, behind which there lurks another one, and another. He'll just have to manage it one thing at a time, step by step. He can do it.


End file.
